


Frayed

by FalseProphet (Batmanthegroomer)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batmanthegroomer/pseuds/FalseProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders always feels so alone, until he wishes to be, and then he is surrounded by something he cannot name. He craves it until it’s gone and he’s more alone than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frayed

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up this fic may travel in to dark places. It's coming from a strange place so I feel warning is needed. There are undertones of rape or non-con, though not explicit, and if not that then seduction and dubious consent.

Anders closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The space he'd made for himself at the back of the clinic was not much, but he had never needed much. It was comforting to know that at least, in some measure, it was /his/. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't relax, he hadn't eaten in days. 

He'd thought he could trust Hawke. He had been so sure of it... and then to hear... the boy Feynriel. Hawke had sent him to the Circle. The Circle! Anders had not been there to offer a voice of reason but he had thought--he had hoped--Hawke would have known better. He was wrong. Maker, he was always wrong. It always hurt. Wounds like that never healed.

He sighed out a shaking breath and removed the tie from his hair. It tousled down to cover his ears, unruly and thick. He lifted a hand to set it behind his ears and settled instead to cover his face with his palms. He felt his jaw clench, his stomach churn and his throat burn.

"How... could he." Anders moaned softly to no one. All he could picture was this boy's face as he was shoved into a cell. He could not stop his mind from playing out abuse at the Templars hands. So young. So promising! And Hawke had...

Anders let out a gasp as he felt a warmth around his shoulders. Justice. Times when he was forcibly reminded that he and Justice were not, in fact, one were few and far between. Having no one else to turn to Anders sank back into the warmth, into the comfort. He imagined laying his head on a broad chest, a hand around his shoulders and the other stroking gently through his hair. A tune played in his ears, a soft lullaby.

/Calm./

Anders felt the warmth spread through him. He rested his head back against the wall, pillow at the small of his back. His boots had been discarded in anger, thrown somewhere across the backroom. His feet grew cold. He shrugged out of his half-jacket and tossed it over his bare toes. It was warmer than his blanket at the moment. He drew his knees up, legs too long to stretch out to their full length in his small bed.

A warm tug at his chest, like arms encircling him. Lips at the top of his head, breath in his hair, quiet whispers of promise. It had been so long since he'd found someone he could trust. He had thought... just for a moment.

Calm.

His body shuddered again as the tightness returned, determined this time to wring him free of pain. He reached up as if to touch the arms around his chest and found only himself at his fingertips. But he was warm, was he not? He opened his eyes slowly, chest illuminated by a soft blue glow at his fingertips. He closed them once more and began removing his robe.

He threw the garment to the floor in a clatter of metal and a groan of leather. He stared at it for a second, used and discarded and empty. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms over his chest, brought to his chest, colored in bright tattoos which helped remind him what he was doing... what he stood for.

/Relax./

Anders breathed out against his knees, warm breath making the hair on his body stand on end. A hand pressed to his chest gently urging him to lie back. He stretched out his left leg, right hand resting along his right knee. He found his pillow warm and comforting as he sunk into it, the hand at his chest rubbing softly in circles.

The hand at his right knee moved, slipping down along the inside of his thigh. Through his tightly shut eyes Anders could see a glow of blue. He imagined the room illuminated, demons and worries frightened away by the pure light. The hand rested soon against his crotch, warm and inviting. The other slid up and clutched gently at his throat, a finger just under his chin.

Relax.

Anders took his bottom lip into his mouth, fingers working quickly to untie his breeches. The hand at his throat slid back down to rest in the center of his chest. It pressed just a little, giving weight the mage knew to be wrong. It was weight from above to below. He dared not open his eyes. The lick of cool finger tips in dirty blond hair between his legs made him gasp.

He slid further down into his pillow, the old mattress. He kicked away his jacket as he squirmed for comfort. With his head flat on the pillow, resting on his back, he braced his left foot against the far wall. It had seemed cozy at first, the idea of tucking his bed into the small alcove. He regretted it now. Out of place as always.

/Trust./

Anders arched his back as the fingers continued down through his breeches. Slowly discovering his manhood as if for the first time. A thumb danced languidly at the base of him, other fingers free to cradle and prod supple flesh. He brought the hand at his chest to his mouth, biting down on a knuckle as the thumb began to slowly stoke a fire. 

The mage felt all sense of self being lifted like a burden too long carried. He lost himself to the sensation of being worked hard tenderly, like someone cared. He pulled the finger from his mouth and tilted his head up and away. His eyebrows quivered and met in the middle drawn upwards in a sigh of passion. A hand settled against his cheek, his jaw, his neck like a tender embrace.

Trust.

A small moan escaped his lips as he was worked to full arousal. His breeches were removed in a tangle of limbs, leaving him with ankles bound in a mockery of shackles. The hand returned to his erection, grasping firmly. A thumb swiped over the tip catching clear moisture and dragging a tendril down with it as it returned to the shaft. The hand on his neck crawled slowly down to splay against his abdomen.

Anders moaned in earnest as the hand began stroking him with purpose. He bent both knees upwards and spread his thighs as wide as he could manage. Muscles tightened and his hips jerked with each testing swipe over his head. The fingers at his stomach kneaded encouragingly, wordless sentiments of pleasure.

/Give./

Anders arched his back feeling suddenly weightless. His mouth fell open as the arching exposed his throat and he felt himself lifted from the bed. He quickly pulled a hand into his hair, tugging to keep himself sane. A soft, seeking pressure at his entrance and the hand at his shaft stuttered leaving him bereft of contact. The pressure persisted and Anders tried to obey. In contradiction of everything he was he tried to be obedient.

He was suddenly breached and he could not identify other than himself, and even that was a task. A warmth around him told him not to ask questions, to accept. He listened. The sensation intensified and he cried out. He rocked against it, his hips grinding against the cool air. His eyes opened only to be blocked out by a darkness, like a cloth blindfold delicately placed against his skin. He moaned.

Give.

Anders let the last of resistance seep from his body. He gave in to the push and pull he felt simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. The presence within him rocked forward and back out like a careful lover. It was lacking but it was perfect. Anders turned his head to the side and mewled with desire. Electricity crackled between his legs. He arched off the bed once more.

/Come undone,

that I may rebuild you./

Anders wanted a name on his lips. He wanted flesh under his hands, breath against his cheeks. He wanted. He wanted, Maker, he was nothing but wanting. He opened himself up to the promise of more, of helping hands, of rebuilding what was broken. He had done it before, he knew he would do it again.

He gasped and tried to curl inward but was stopped but a pressure on his chest. It eagerly pressed him back into the bed as he writhed. His lips parted, he sucked in a desperate breath and tumbled over the edge with a soft cry. His heels dug into the mattress, still trapped within his discarded breaches. His body tensed like a sob and relaxed like the following onslaught of tears.

And then it was done. Like all the air sucked from the room. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself alone. Thoughts in his mind tried to debate that, but he could not entertain them. He rolled onto his side and buried his face in his hands.

If I am to be rebuilt, why am I still in ruins?


End file.
